


You Can't Go Home Again

by WulfenOne



Series: Butterflies With Angel Wings [13]
Category: X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-20
Updated: 2017-09-20
Packaged: 2018-12-31 21:52:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12141879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WulfenOne/pseuds/WulfenOne
Summary: Upon her return from Europe, Rebecca Braddock has to face up to the painful reality of her feelings about Hank McCoy, and how she'll deal with them.





	You Can't Go Home Again

Mum and Dad met me at the airport a few hours ago – it was pretty early in the morning, so neither of them looked like the perfect specimens they try and present themselves as during the daytime. Mum's hair was escaping from her ponytail, and Dad looked like he was going to fall asleep at the wheel. I swear I could see his head dip a couple of times.

Pretty lucky for us he didn't, although it was a close call once or twice. Mum took over for him when we were halfway home, and he fell asleep on the passenger seat. Mum played with his hair a little before she started the engine up again, kissing his eyelids gently. When we were moving again, she asked me how my trip had been, and I gave her pretty short answers – I thought it was best to get home before we got into anything heavy – and then she asked me "Still feel the same about Hank?" She wasn't making fun of me – she'd never do that, I don't think – but it really threw me. All I could say was "Um… yeah. Are you angry with me? Is he?" She laughed then (Mum's laugh is one of the things I missed the most when I was away. It's loud and lusty and still refined all at the same time, and it made me feel so much more at home once I'd healed up).

"No," she said. "He just wants to talk to you, that's all. Better wait until he's awake, though – it's probably best if you don't barge into his room right now."

 _He's probably with Trish,_  I thought, with just a touch of jealousy.

Okay, a  **lot**  of jealousy. At least that's what I thought it was, at the time. I couldn't be sure, and not wanting to ask Mum to confirm it, I let it go, but I'm fairly certain my assessment at the time was correct. Right now, I'm standing right outside Hank's door. My hand is hovering right up against the oak surface, and I'm trying to find the courage inside of me to knock. Why am I so afraid? It's only Hank – he's not going to hurt me. So why won't my hand knock?

_What's wrong with me? Why am I being so weak?_

I take a deep breath and steel myself. "To hell with this…" I mutter, and rap smartly on the door, three times.

There is a period of about a minute or so that the door stays closed, during which I can hear fumbling behind the door, and Hank shouting "I shall be with you in a second, oh anonymous Person from Porlock! Give me a few moments to clothe myself and we shall be able to talk without embarrassing ourselves!" His words draw an involuntary laugh from my lips, despite the fact that my palms are so slick with sweat I've had to wipe them on the seat of my jeans twice now. He opens the door to greet me, his half-moon glasses perched on the end of his slightly upturned nose, and his blue fur dishevelled and with unruly tufts sticking up here and there from the edges of his dressing gown and slippers.

"Ah, yes," he says, suddenly looking as uncomfortable as I feel. "Betsy said you were coming home today." He shrugs and smiles, showing his fangs enthusiastically. His discomfort has passed as quickly as it appeared, and he looks his old self again. "Shall we go for some breakfast? I'd imagine your flight was exhausting, was it not? Surely I can cook you some delicious patented Hank McCoy hash browns, sausages and bacon?" That makes me smile, at last.

"Thank you," I say. "That would be… nice." As Hank grins again, pleased that I have taken him up on his offer, I say, in a voice so soft even I have trouble hearing it, "It's good to see you again, Hank."

Hank tilts his head to one side. "It's good to see you again, too, Ms Braddock – Rebecca." He takes my hand in his and kisses it elegantly. I can feel a blush starting to burn my cheeks, and I curse my weakness silently – Mum wouldn't let this happen to her, I'm sure…

I gesture at the door to the bedchamber. "Trish is in there, isn't she, Hank?" I ask, flatly, just to bring myself back down to earth. "I don't want to wake her up." Hank raises an eyebrow.

"Astute, aren't you?" The comment is more an expression of praise than of anything else, I think. "Yes, Rebecca, she is. However, I'm sure she won't mind if we have a little talk over the breakfast table. If she does, then I would postulate that that's her problem. Come along, maiden most fair – McCoy-style pan-fried bacon awaits!" He offers me his arm, and we head jauntily down the hall towards the small kitchen below stairs. Hank leads me to the grand staircase and lets go of my arm in order to bounce from wall to wall, using his fingers and toes as steering devices that look like they're barely shifting his body's considerable bulk, but are in fact doing it even more precisely than my eyes can follow. Before I can fully process what's going on, Hank is hanging from the chandelier in the centre of the room by his feet, before he somersaults three times to the floor and bends at the waist in a shallow bow. I clap once or twice in an ironic kind of way, my eyebrow raised.

"Very impressive. You're nothing but a show-off, Hank McCoy." He grins, showing his sharp fangs again.

"And you, young lady, are quite obviously jealous."

 _More than you know…_  is all I can think.

Aloud, I say "Of you? I can do that stunt you just pulled in half the space!" Now Hank is the one to raise a shaggy eyebrow, his blue eyes filled with a questioning look.

"Is that right?" he asks. "Well, Rebecca, why don't you put your theoretical money where your mouth is and prove yourself right? I promise I'll catch you if and when you fall." He winks at me, and stands back, folding his arms as he does so. I can see the small smile on his face, even though I'm at the top of the stairs and he's at the bottom, and it inspires me to up the stakes a little.

"What do you say we make this a little more interesting?" I say. "How about a real wager? Ten dollars says I can make it."

"Why, Rebecca, I do believe you've picked up a few bad habits in Europe," Hank replies in mock-surprise. "All right. If you're going to do that, then twenty dollars says you can't."

"Done." I take a deep breath and take as long a run-up as the corridor will allow, and launch myself into the air. I can feel my momentum carrying me along as I cannonball for as long as I can, my body unfurling as it needs to, in order to grasp at handholds and to push off with my feet. I can feel my speed increasing, and finally I leap off the staircase towards the chandelier, my hands outstretched and ready to grab the chandelier's frame.

I miss.

For a horrible instant I feel as if I am suspended in mid-air, my fingers still scrabbling for the metal of the chandelier's supports, and then I begin to fall. Below me I can see everything unfolding as if in slow motion, and I know that that will not last – as soon as I hit the ground everything will be released into ugly clarity – but then I feel two powerful, furry arms holding me, and I feel so safe. One of them lets go of me to grab at the chandelier, the other swinging me towards the balcony. It's a painful landing, but undoubtedly a much less painful one than I would have endured otherwise. Hank somersaults off the glass construction and pivots himself over the balcony's rail.

"Don't make me have to do that again," he says sternly, his glasses still inexplicably perched on his nose. Then he rubs a clawed finger and thumb together. "Now, then, after that little mishap, I believe you owe me, don't you?"

"Can't I catch my breath first?" I say, my lungs still refusing to work properly. When I've calmed down a little, I reach into a pocket and find my purse – a leather affair that Mum bought for me before I left for Europe – and pull out a crumpled twenty-dollar bill. "Here. Take it." Hank slides the bill out from between my fingers with his claws and folds it in half, before slipping it into a pocket of his dressing gown. "My hero – you save my life and expect me to pay you for it." Hank taps me on the nose playfully.

"Please remember, Rebecca, that it was you who suggested the bet in the first place – I was merely collecting on a previously placed wager. Saving your life was necessary to the completion of that particular contract." His expression turns a little more serious suddenly and he looks me straight in the eye. "Please promise me you'll never try that again, Rebecca."

His candour surprises me. "I promise," I say softly, returning his gaze without blinking. Behind the funnies, the acrobatics, and the blue fur, I can see a man who was afraid I might get hurt just at that moment and who put his own life on the line to stop that happening.

Hank's serious expression fades then, and his smile returns. "Good girl. I'd hate to be the one to tell your mother I'd been the one who failed to stop you from breaking your neck while you were taking risks like a typical teenager, after all." He touches the furry knuckles of his right hand to my chin affectionately. "Come on, Little Miss Daredevil, let's go and get that breakfast I mentioned. I'm sure after a fall like that you must be starved. Maybe we could get you fitted for some blood-red spandex and horns while we're at it?"

I stick my tongue out at him. "Oh, my. Aren't you the comedian?"

Hank shrugs. "That seems to be the role life has presented for me, yes." Then, he holds up a clawed forefinger. "However, never let it be said that I won't follow through on it without my customary aplomb. And it beats having to scrape you off the floor." His grin is infectious, and I find myself laughing as we make our way into the kitchen.

Hank's cooking smells delicious, and even though he's tried to cultivate the image of himself as a Twinkie-hoarding recluse around the others (a recluse who won't touch an oven unless it's to retrieve the food that somebody else has cooked), I know better now. I think the others do, too, but they just humour him because he tries so hard. He scoops two rashers of bacon onto a plate and spears two sausages to add to them. The fried bread, hash browns, beans and mushrooms that he piles onto the plates to virtually cover the meat make it look absolutely horrifying in terms of calories. I'm sure Dad or Scott would have a coronary – literally – if they were presented with this. Hank notices my disbelief and smiles knowingly.

"I got a taste for English breakfasts on a research trip to Muir Island a few years ago," he says. "Moira served me one before I had a chance to protest, and wouldn't let me leave the table until I'd finished every last slice of fried bread. I find they're a welcome antidote to the obsessively health-conscious morning repasts I see around here. I wouldn't eat them every day, of course, but they're a welcome change once in a while. Besides which, I like the taste of fried bread." He fusses over the plates and puts one down in front of me. "Eat up, young Braddock, or it'll get cold." I give him a cock-eyed look for a moment.

"You  _do_  realise you sounded just like Mum then, don't you?"

He laughs. "Absolutely. While I can't claim to have the same kind of figure as your mother, I do feel it's my responsibility, as the oldest adult here –"

"Apart from the Professor," I finish, with a smile.

"Apart from the Professor," he repeats, rolling his eyes, "I feel it's my responsibility to make sure that you get an adequate start to the day."

" _Adequate?_  This ought to keep me going until dinner!" I prod the mountain of food with my fork and poke it into a slice of sausage, and then put it into my mouth a little cautiously. I have to admit, Hank is an excellent cook, and the meat tastes beautiful. He watches me from across the table, and smiles when I give him an adoring kind of look.

"Good?" he asks rhetorically.

"Very," I tell him, enthusiastically finishing both the sausages and tucking into the bacon just as quickly. "I think I can feel my arteries clogging right this minute."

"Just as it should be," Hank says, cutting himself a slice of potato. "Now… I think we have something more substantial to talk about than breakfast, don't you?" He takes a sip from the glass of milk he had previously poured for himself and ends up with a milk moustache on his upper lip, which lightens my mood quite a bit, as I'm sure he intended. He puts his glass down, pushes his glasses further up his nose, and licks the white froth off his fur. Then he folds his fingers together and sighs softly. "You know my… circumstances, don't you?"

I nod, silently. Hank pulls his mouth into a tight line for a moment, noticing my discomfort, and scratches behind his ear uncomfortably. "Then you know I can't be what you want me to be – not now. This isn't a rejection, Rebecca – far from it; I told you when we spoke on the phone that you're an incredibly beautiful young woman, and nothing will ever change that. If my situation were different in any way, I wouldn't hesitate to try and give you my fullest attention, and treat you like the intelligent, gorgeous young lady that you are. Right at this moment, though, leading you on would be both unfair to you and would make me feel bad about myself. I can't do that. Trish and I are just starting to rebuild our relationship, too, and after all we've been through, I have to give this another chance. You… do understand, don't you?" His words feel like sledgehammer blows despite their soft pitch, and I can feel my heart getting ripped in half involuntarily. Oh, God, I thought I was  _stronger_  than this! Why am I giving in to these feelings?

"Yes, Hank," I say, softly. "Doesn't make it any easier for me, though." I rub at my burning eyes with a thumb and fingertip briefly, before saying anything else. "I never wanted to feel this way. I thought I could be happy without it, and then this had to happen. God, I feel like such an idiot…" Hank raises his eyebrows and adjusts his glasses again.

"We all need love in some capacity, Rebecca. You're not an idiot for wanting that," he says. "Not at all – it's human nature. Even your big brother Nathan has Domino, after all. You can't keep denying what and who you are just because these feelings are uncomfortable. You have to face being a member of the human race at some point, because if you don't, then the pain will only get worse." He sighs. "I tried shutting myself off for weeks at a time trying to cure the Legacy Virus. It got to be an obsession of mine, and I lost pretty much all of my contact with the outside world. It did me no good, Rebecca, and it'll do you no good to follow in my footsteps. You're a stunning young woman, and I would wager that there would be men lined up around the block if you were to ask it of them."

"If they knew I was a mutant, they'd probably leave me alone for good." I point at my eyes in frustration. "Do you think they'll want anything to do with me once they see these? I forgot to put my contacts in once when I was in France, and I didn't get attacked or even insulted once, but here? I'd probably get beaten to a bloody pulp because people can't handle what I am."

Hank taps the table once or twice with a sharp fingernail and shrugs. "If they feel like that, then it's probably best that you don't know them. But for every bigot that shouts about us being genetic 'mistakes', there are ten decent people who would never think about doing what some of those Friends Of Humanity idiots do. I'm sure your mother has told you this before, but humanity is a lot better than you give it credit for. I promise." He shrugs again. "There are humans out there who won't care that you're a mutant. Look at Trish, for example. She loves me because, not in spite, of who and what I am. If you look hard enough, you'll find a man who will do the same for you." He winks. "They'd be utterly stupid not to." His smile is infectious, and finally I can feel my face cracking into a wide grin.

"Thank you, Hank." I pause for a second, taking a deep breath, and then continue "This wasn't exactly the way I saw this little chat going, you know." Hank smiles sadly and scratches the tip of his nose.

"Life never goes as smoothly as we would often like it to, Rebecca." He gets out of his chair and puts his arms around me, his fur tickling my face. "All we can do is hang on and enjoy the ride it gives us as best we can." Then, to my surprise, he kisses me gently on the forehead, and wipes away the wetness that's still lingering at the corners of my eyes. "Friends?" he asks hopefully.

"Friends."

"Good." Hank's voice is filled with relief as he lets go of me, and moves over to the counter in order to pour himself some orange juice. "Would you like one?" he asks, holding up an empty glass. I nod, and he pours me a generous measure and slides it along the counter. It's all I can do to grab it before it slips off the edge and shatters on the ground.

"Thank you, Hank," I say again, taking a small sip of the sweet juice. "This has been… good… for me, even if it didn't work out exactly the way I planned."

"Think nothing of it, Rebecca," he replies, gulping a large mouthful of the orange liquid. "'Twas the least I could have done for someone in such a thorny predicament. I hope I've managed to help you slay those demons of yours – I know how hard love, unrequited or otherwise, can be. If you need to talk any further, then you know where to find me."

I nod. "I'd like that very much." Then, swallowing a small mouthful of juice, I continue "Who'd have thought love could be such a pain in the ass?"

Hank laughs. "Rebecca, there are people twice your age who are only beginning to find that out for themselves. Trust me, you're in a much better position than they are – at least you're prepared, for one thing." He pushes his glasses further up his nose. "If I were you, I'd count that as a blessing."


End file.
